


Once you eliminate the impossible

by thebrighteststar10



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:40:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrighteststar10/pseuds/thebrighteststar10
Summary: Usually, the way mortals spend their fleeting lives aren't their concern. But when a certain desperation becomes too strong that it almost becomes a sore thumb to those who are bored enough to look down, sometimes, once or twice in a thousand years, one of them descends to Earth and fix said desperation.It isn't too surprising that one Sherlock Holmes catches their eye.(An AU in which a supernatural spirit visits Sherlock to get it together and just kiss John already.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Once you eliminate the impossible

"Ooh-oh, a client, Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door of 221B. Sherlock looked up from the microscope, and in a matter of seconds, deduced that the client couldn't be more than a four. Tedious. A schoolteacher whose life problems couldn't be possibly anything more than her husband's (presumed) affair. And it wasn't even real. Her husband wasn't that much of a risk-taker.

"Bored. Go away," drawled Sherlock, looking back to his microscope.

"Oh? Am I, now?"

That made Sherlock look up.

Wrong.

Something in the way the client said it was wrong. Someone that lackluster, someone who lived such a mundane life and was happy about it should have said something the line of- _oh, sorry, so sorry to bother you, what was I thinking_ \- but here she was, eyebrows raised and one hand on her waist, leaning against the doorframe with the utter arrogance that cannot be found in any of her hideous homemade jumper threads.

"Changed your mind, then. Oh, don't think too badly of this jumper," she said, feigning pity as she looked down at herself. "Sharon loves it. As idiotic as she is, I do like it when humans do this sort of thing."

Sherlock could feel every single one of his brain cell tingle.

How did she know that Sherlock was thinking about the jumper? Sherlock knew that his face didn't betray his observations, he trained himself mercilessly for it. And what did she mean when she said 'humans,' as if she isn't one of them? Is this person some sort of an escaped psychiatric patient? Was this- Sherlock made sure he concentrated to his uttermost ability at this - Eurus, again?

"Nope. Not your psychotic sister, no."

Sherlock slowly stood up.

He remembered where he'd last put his handgun. It was in the salad drawer. He also remembered that he had his phone in his left pocket of his trousers. If he moved fast enough, he'll be able to text John with his left hand. Mycroft would bring in more reinforcements, but he'd much prefer John for several reasons. In the meanwhile, he had to figure out who this person was. 

"Oh my. You do think fast for a human, don't you?" She crooned, as if she was speaking to a baby. "Don't worry about your gun. Now, I know that I get to sit over there if I'm a client." She pointed at the seat near the two armchairs in the sitting room. "May I?"

Sherlock nodded once, and then twice. "Of course. Please do."

**Come home at once. SH**

As he pretended to show the client the short way to the client's chair, he stealthily took his phone out and texted John behind his back, as fast as he could with one hand.

**Could be dangerous. SH**

The client didn't seem to notice. Sherlock sat down and crossed his legs, assuming his positions. He narrowed his eyes on the client once more.

_Late fourties. Married. Two children. Schoolteacher. Doesn't like taking risks. Went to a bakery before coming here. Has a black-haired cat. Likes hideous jumpers._

Everything he could deduce with his eyes did not make any sense.

Fascinating.

"Well then. Aren't you going to deduce why I'm here?" The woman asked in a condescending tone. It was so out of character, at least according to what Sherlock has deduced. 

"...Schoolteacher. Worried about husband's possible affair but really doesn't care much. Favours the first child just a bit. Likes Danish pastry. Calls cat various names. Likes...to make jumpers."

"Clever! Very clever." Her laughter, despite how loud and exaggerated it was, somehow did not reach her eyes.

"Name?" Sherlock asked.

"What, couldn't deduce that?"

Sherlock ignored it.

"Well. I can't tell you my real name. But this vessel's name is Sharon. I think. 'Sharon Macfiller.' Horrendous name, don't you think?"

Vessel.

Ah. So this was indeed an escaped psychiatric patient. And she thinks that she is borrowing someone else's body. Sherlock gave a mental headcount of the closest psychiatric hospitals and tried to guess which one she had managed to escape from. But if she was indeed a runaway, how could she be wearing normal clothes and leave chalk powders on her sleeves?

"Yes indeed. How could I?" She asked with a snort.

Sherlock's mind jerked. No one, not Mycroft, not Moriarty, not even Eurus could read his mind like this. 

This was next level.

"Now, don't do that. Let's not waste anymore time, shall we?" She said, as she leaned back in the uncomfortable client-chair and crossed her legs.

"...very well." Sherlock replied. John was going to be here anytime soon, and he could never pass an intriguing mystery. He gathered his hands near his chin, assuming his thinking position. "What do you wish to talk about, then?" He asked, gaze not leaving 'Sharon' for a second.

That made the woman smile, which still didn't reach her eyes. "John Watson, of course."

Sherlock tensed visibly.

"Oh, no. Don't worry. I'm not trying to hurt him. I'm trying to help him. And you. Mainly you." Sharon grinned again, showing her teeth this time.

It looked horrifying.

"I've heard that before," were the words Sherlock has chosen carefully.

Sharon frowned. "It's too loud, your head. You really do think fast for a human, don't you? It must be exhausting for your human body to maintain. I was getting used to Sharon's moronic monologues in her head, you know. And you're like a supercomputer, compared to her."

Sherlock did not answer but glared instead.

The mystery client shrugged. "Anyways. Back to business. So. As you've already guessed, I'm not a human. Not a runaway patient, either. Not your sister, not that idiot who thinks of himself as God - Moriarty, was it? - and most definitely _not_ your hallucination. Are you seriously doubting your own consciousness when you've been clean for five months, now? Oh, speaking of five months..."

Sherlock did not dare to make a sound. Everything in his head was going full speed, trying to make sense of this woman.

"Five months, isn't that when John agreed to move back in? Yes, I know that, of course I do. As I was saying, I'm not human."

"Then. What. Are. You?" Sherlock growled on each word.

An amused look passed though her face. "Worried from the instant I mention John Watson. How transparent." She paused, frowning slightly, as if trying to pick the right words.

"I'm... what you mortals call an Angel. Or a Demon. Your choice, really."

"......"

"Anyways. I'm immortal, you see. And I live up there," she pointed at the ceiling. "And once in a while, I take a peek down here," she said, gesturing around herself," you know, what you humans call planet Earth. And I really like to take my time, you see. I just like to watch your little minds do the same thing over and over again until you finally leave your feeble bodies. But- hmm. This is where you come in, Sherlock."

Her face became inscrutable. "But sometimes, when one of you get too fussy over something. Too obsessed. Too desperate. Too... too loud. Then it just wouldn't do, all right? It disrupts us too much. It's too loud."

Sherlock moved his hands below to his chin. "And how did I _disrupt_ you, then? What is the object of my desperate obsession?"

"You know what. Or whom. I just told you."

"... John Watson?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. Dr. John Watson. Ah-ah. Don't try to deny it. I can hear your mind, remember? You don't believe me yet? Aren't you stubborn. Hmm. Let's see... what if I tell you that I know you have a John Wing in your mind palace?"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

There's now way she could've known that, no way, unless...

"Left wing, tall and spacious, and ooh. Isn't this delicious. The first room on the ground floor, what can I see here?" She said, closing her eyes, her face expression looking like she's just tasted something exquisite. "The first time you two met. How romantic!"

Sherlock sat straight in his chair, hands gone from his chin. They were now on his lap, trembling.

"Afghanistan or Iraq? Not a bad pick-up line, Sherlock. You sized him up from the start, didn't you? Why could nobody figure out the reason you became so enthusiastic to have a stranger as your flatmate? You, of all people, shouting your address with a wink, and nobody thinks it bizarre? Even before John showered you with praise, you were actually infatuated with the ex-army doctor, from the very first sight. From the moment you lay your eyes on him, you were drawn to him. You knew Stamford didn't have his phone with him. You knew the good doctor would lend you his phone. You wanted to _impress_ him. You wanted to impress him with all you've got, and so you try your best to gain information and try not to deduce him too much but - ooh, you panicked and just blurted everything out, didn't you? - and then you panic some more, which leads to you leaving with a wink and a comment about your riding crop in the morgue. So anxious and so flustered at the face of someone you like. Why, that's just adorable."

"Stop it," muttered Sherlock. He didn't pass a mystery, he never did, but this was getting too much, even for him.

This was his mind.

His deepest, darkest thoughts.

"Don't worry, I told you. I'm here to help you." Sharon opened her eyes.

"I'm here to take care of that hollowness inside you. The loneliness that devours you every time John can't see you."

He stilled.

"The pain. The hurt," she emphasized.

For the first time since she ever set foot into Sherlock's sight, he averted his eyes from her.

"It's exhausting, isn't it?" She asked, with a voice that didn't show any compassion. It was just a question.

Silence.

After a moment of debating with himself, Sherlock decided to give it a go. If this was all a dream - which was the only possible explanation at this point - he might as well use this ghost his own mind made up as a therapist.

"It is," he answered, finally.

"That wasn't so hard. Although I'm not your dream."

Sherlock merely gave a _hmph_ , sound, still not looking at her eyes.

"I can see why you liked him from the first sight. A doctor, who served in the military. Who heals but also fights. A bundle of contradictions. Your mind-palace John says stuff like: "I'm an army doctor, that means I can break every bone in your body while naming them." Oh, my. Your kink is showing, detective."

"Shut up," Sherlock mumbled.

"And then what you can describe as the best day of your life happened. He said, "The Police don't consult amateurs," and up until that point, you have so carefully stopped yourself from blurting out all those deductions in your head, afraid that you'll scare off someone you liked. But because you are a show-off who couldn't stand being called an idiot, you had to say it all out, and when you were finished and was almost half-convinced that the doctor was going to kick you out of the cab, what did he say? "That, was... Amazing." "Extraordinary. Quite, extraordinary." You were quite surprised, weren't you?"

"...yes."

"And then at Angelo's. You didn't correct Angelo's words because you did think 'date' was something where two people who like each other go out and have fun. And you already liked John, so no problem. But then, you thought he might be interested in you sexually, and you panic once again. Because as you've told yourself repeatedly since Redbeard, you don't do sentiment. And - oh, oh - also because you were, and are, a virgin."

"......"

"Then there's the run, the chase. Doing it with someone else, it was something really different, was it? And then John giggles, and it's so clear that he enjoyed it as much as you did, and oh, Sherlock, my heart breaks. Really? There hadn't been a single person who enjoyed what you enjoyed, before John?"

"I don't need to answer that."

"No, you don't, because I already know that there wasn't."

"Then what exactly is the point of you asking."

Sharon ignored him. "Let me just go through this room, there's just so much treasure left. Oh, ooh, what can I see... well, this is just precious. He shot the cabbie."

Sherlock pursed his lip. Even after all this years, the moment was inscribed into his memory, more than any others.

"And he looks totally unphased. Nerves of steel, you say? Nerves of steel, indeed. And a crackshot, too. Whoo- now, the doctor is not only just a fighter that heals, isn't he? He is acclimated to danger, and he kills without batting an eyelash, kills _effectively_. Oh. But here's another twist. You do love your contradictions. Your paradox. He kills with a firm moral principle."

Hearing everything he'd pushed inside his mind palace, fleshed out in actual words, was harder than he expected. Sherlock closed his eyes. He was worried John might come in anytime soon, but he could hear John's footsteps on the floors and identify them any second.

"A soldier with a marksman's ability who kills with a principle and also heals. Really, Sherlock, with the way you are, you couldn't really help yourself falling in love with him then and there."

"What do you mean, with the way I am?" Sherlock questioned, although his voice lacked the usual snap. His whole heart was out in the open, and he had nowhere to hide.

"You know what I mean. Moriarty was interesting because he knew the thrill of the game. Irene Adler, too. But you were always the one with the heart, weren't you. You knew, instinctively, what's right and what's wrong, from when you were very young. Mycroft and Eurus didn't, but you did. That's why you were the weak one. The stupid one."

"......"

"But you also had the Holmes brain with you, and it made you constantly mock your own heart. You wanted to be a machine, that's what you'd say, but deep in your heart, you wanted to be a pirate. Your brain sneered at stuff like dancing, but your body loved it. You lived off the high on solving crimes, but at the same time, you knew that the criminals were wrong to inflict harm on the innocent. Contrary to what Sergeant Donovan would say, you'll never be the reason they find a body, because no matter how you aspire to be, no matter how much your Holmesean brain tells you to be, you can never be evil."

"......"

"And then there's John, who gets so high on adrenaline during that chase that he forgets his cane. Who enjoys the crime-solving, just like you. Who even kills, brutally murders a civilian without a single tremor. But all of that with a firm moral principle holding his posture straight, like a soldier does. That faith, that firm principle in morality. That loyalty he shows towards you against Mycroft and the cabbie. The look of being appalled at the possibility of you being a drug addict. He's dangerous and he likes danger, but he is, at the same time, so grounded in his own morality like a soldier who blindly follows their commander."

"......"

"Someone you could never, in a million years, figure out. Because he was exactly like you, but you could never face yourself. An addict with a heart."

Sherlock remained still.

"From the moment you figured out he shot the cabbie, there was just no way out. I'm sorry. The universe has indeed been cruel to you, hasn't it?"

He refused to answer.

Sharon sighed. She continues digging up Sherlock's mind palace. "And then you had to Fall and John had to go and marry Mary. That rhymes. Fun. But not so fun for you. You never expected John to be so affected by your death, and when you found out that he was indeed furious, you were afraid that he'd never forgive you. Terrified. Much more than you have been when you faced Moriarty's henchmen. But you would've done it again, just like you've done, because... a-ha. John could never know, because that was part of the deal. If John knew, the instant he knew, he was getting sniped. And you knew that John wouldn't be able to completely hide it once he hears that you're alive. He's like that, isn't he? So transparent."

"......"

"You couldn't risk his life, no matter how well John could've hid the news."

"......"

"Because you'd have his grief and hatred towards you a hundred times before you risked his life."

"......"

"Mary dies for you, which you find strange, and now you hold even a bigger burden. You let him grieve for your death, and you make him grieve for his wife's death. What a friend you are. All you do in John Watson's life is to cause him pain and grief. And yet, you can't leave him."

"... John needs someone to look after him." Sherlock's voice was uneven and gruff.

"Yes, yes. But you also can't leave him. The flight where you thought you could never see John, ever again? You were planning to commit suicide. To commit overdose."

"......"

"The last thing you wanted to see before you died was John's blog about how you two first met. About how he found you fascinating and brilliant."

"......"

"The thing, at the tarmac. The thing that you wanted to say but gave up last minute, what was it?"

"......"

"Come on, say it out loud."

"...you can figure it out, yourself. You're practically inside my head already," snapped Sherlock. He opened his eyes and glared at the uninvited visitor.

"Yes I can, but it is important that you say it out loud."

Sherlock clenches his teeth.

"No."

"Oh, Sherlock. You eccentric human. Come on, say it out loud."

"I said no," Sherlock snarled. "Why do you need me to say it when you can just dig in like you've been doing for the past five minutes?"

"Because I said it's important," she answered, Sherlock's ire not disturbing her a single bit.

Sherlock wasn't finished. "And why _the hell_ do you need to recite all that to me when it's basically what I already know in my head?"

"Sherlock, it's important, trust me," said Sharon, her eyes levelled at him, steadily.

"Piss off," spat Sherlock.

"Sherlock- remember, I'm helping you. And I promise," she lowered her voice, gently, "I promise that I will make your hurt gone after this. I promise."

Sherlock bit his lower lip. And for a moment, the detective looked young and vulnerable, more so than he ever was since Sharon got him talking.

"I know you can't trust me still. But it's a good deal, isn't it? Just spill out what I already know, and you may or may not get your heartbreak fixed."

Sharon could see that the massive brain of Sherlock Holmes was agreeing with him, despite a part of it screaming, _what was her gain?_ The prize was just too sweet to ignore.

Slowly and steadily, the detective opened his mouth.

"I wanted to say that I love him."

Sharon grinned so widely, that although it didn't reach her eyes not yet, she looked almost a little bit happy and a little less terrifying.

"There you go! That wasn't too bad, was it!"

And then, with a flick of her finger, something transparent fell behind where Sharon was sitting, and there was-

There was-

John, standing there, eyes wide and mouth shut, staring at Sherlock like he's never seen him before.

Standing at the threshold of their flat.

"...John?" Sherlock stuttered. He bolted up from his seat.

"Sherlock," replied John. His voice was calm but he couldn't hide the shake at the end.

"...How long- how-?"

"Since she talked about the- the John Wing."

Sherlock paled, and he could feel his blood draining from his face. He then turned to the woman, or the angel or the demon, whoever it was, who was now watching them with a devilish satisfaction on her face.

"You... you...!"

"Oh pish posh, Sherlock. I'm immortal. I can hear your mind. Did you really think I didn't notice the text you sent John? And did you really think I can't hide John from you when all you were relying on was to hear his _footsteps_? Humans are always so reliant on their science, or whatever they call it. Here I am, showing them an exception to all "science" practically in their face and they still think the same- how easy to make you creatures feel settled, feel like you've got this, like you're the master of this world-"

"Shut up." John snipped.

"John, really? I just dug out from Sherlock's mind and narrated all that you wanted to know about Sherlock! What he found so fascinating about you when you consider yourself so ordinary, why did he never tell you that he was alive, and why the fuck was he still around you when you feel terribly guilty about beating Sherlock at the morgue?"

Sherlock caught his breath.

That was what she was doing, then.

He should've wondered why her tales were so selective.

John Wing was vast, after all.

The flat was silent, with nobody making a sound. And for all of it, John was staring at Sherlock with a glance that terrified Sherlock because of what it could mean.

"Ahem," coughed Sharon into the silence. Neither of them spared her a glance.

"Well then. I'll be off now. Oh, and boys?"

She stood up, took her bag, and looked at them, left and right. Sherlock broke the eye contact and faced her. John's eyes were still on Sherlock.

"You don't need to worry about something supernatural like this, ever again. We don't come down too often. Once in a thousand human years, maybe. Even less. We don't do this when it's hopeless, and it's really not too often when your level of desperation is unresolved when there's this much hope. Toodles!"

She walked past John. John did not bat a lash, with the typical determined fashion that he had.

The sound of her walking down the stairs.

As soon as the front door closed, John took a step closer.

Sherlock stepped back.

"Sherlock, I..." Watching this, John stopped, and looked down to his feet. He looked small. Sherlock wanted to hug him, but he couldn't, because his heart was all torn apart, manifested for an exhibition, to the one person he had to guard it against the most. All of the purposefully placed hands that avoided the intimate places, the painstakingly feigned emotions on his face whenever he caught John watching him, all the sighs and the insults that he had to make up - all that, just to protect his frail little heart.

It was all gone.

It was funny that he thought of Mycroft at a time like this.

So vulnerable.

So weak.

Mycroft will tell him to buckle up and fight against the sentiment, to conquer it and to laugh at the face of it, to ridicule it.

Sherlock watched John's sagged shoulders and blond-grey top of his head as he realized that - he couldn't do that.

He could not laugh at this, whatever it was, because it was his everything.

When John raised his head again, Sherlock could see that he cried.

"She did say that we weren't hopeless, right?" John said, voice groggy.

It took a moment before Sherlock realized that John was talking about Sharon's last words.

"Sherlock-" John reached his arm out, not yet closing the distance between the two. Sherlock didn't move. "Sherlock, what she said, just now, all that... is that true? All of it?"

Sherlock made his choice. His everything.

"Yes," he whispered. He closed his eyes.

The next thing he could feel was John's arms, and the words: "I love you too."

It turned out that Sharon did keep her promise. 


End file.
